By Natasha Drake
For their first date she met him at the place just outside the city center. It was October and already dark; bright yellow light suffused out through the restaurant windows. She noticed him sitting in a booth in the back. He stood up and smiled.
“It’s good to see you,” Moritz said. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“It’s good to see you outside the teachers’ room.”
They were colleagues at the language school, though as a German teacher state-certified to teach language and integration classes, he made more than twice as much hourly. All those hundreds of thousands of refugees. Wir schaffen das.
She’d been surprised when he had asked for her number; flattered, when the unequivocally flirtatious WhatsApp messages began to arrive. He was so tall and confident, with a broad-shouldered body that he swathed in black jeans and tight black T-shirts. Always black. He didn’t wear any other colors.
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